#truthseeker
To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC
A god dies
when no one believes.
When the altars grow cold
and the names turn to dust.
But I’m still here.
No hymn.
No temple.
No worshipper’s need.
I walk the ruins
of every faith I outlived
and light my own flame
in the silence they left.
Let them call it heresy.
Let them call it madness.
The echo still answers
to the name I chose.
A god dies when forgotten—
but I remember myself.
—Vazago d'Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
I’ve followed every voice
that dared to ask why.
From Socrates,
who stripped truth naked with questions,
to the devil himself,
who asked them where angels wouldn’t.
Wisdom isn’t holy.
It’s hungry.
It walks through temples and taverns,
burns its fingers on forbidden light,
and still reaches back for more.
If the price of knowing
is to fall from grace,
then let me fall
with my eyes open.
Because every spark of truth
I’ve stolen from the dark
still burns like a star
in my chest.
—Vazago d’Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
They took the rebel,
with dirt on his feet
and fire in his voice,
and dressed him in silk,
floating
like some sainted mannequin
in Saint-Tropez.
He flipped tables —
now they kneel at golden ones.
He fed the poor —
now they feed on gold-plated prayers.
He walked with ****** and thieves —
now they polish marble for the pious.
He healed on the Sabbath
just to make a point.
Told the rich,
“Give it all away.”
He spat truth like lightning
and stood firm in storms.
But they couldn’t control that man.
So they made him God.
Not to lift him —
but to bury him in worship.
Because if he’s God,
you don’t have to follow —
just bow.
They crowned him
to silence him.
Sanitized the sweat,
bleached the blood,
branded the rebel
as royalty.
But I remember the man —
not the myth.
I see the dust,
the rage,
the truth that burned in his chest.
And I say:
bring back the fire.
Let him walk barefoot
into temples again.
Jul 17, 2025
Jul 17, 2025 at 1:14 PM UTC
God's call
To implement love
In a loveless world
.
Be strong dear
For your enemies are menacing
But they hold no power over you
As long as you remain
Connected to
the Vine
.
Wash your hands clean,
Valiant one
Chosen one
Truth seeker and
Truth finder
You have come upon the spring of Life,
Let it cleanse you of your double-mindedness,
Of your sin
.
Step into the light,
Noble one
My brave dear
For all to be revealed
Your secrets of shame
Are deemed powerless
Your shackles have alchemized
Into sparkling dust
.
You are free
.
Now
Step forth on this journey.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
Oceans of thought provoking reads
sends his mind sailing as he drifts off and dreams.
Words come to life, creating abstract scenes, activating DNA.
Dimensions stretch, never again be(lie)ving in the same things.
Rose colored glasses cracked, hit by the truth, leaving such a painful sting.
When it all subsides, night vision eyes will be what will assist him in his dreams.
It's the desire to seek out these mysteries that keeps him intrigued by intricate things.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
Allegories of euphoria drip from pen, triggering deja vu.
Spiraling down holes where white rabbits go with a clock around my neck; don't wanna be to late to open up and look through a different point of view.
Spitting out bones as I chew; infinite elasticity makes room for truth when the fear of searching has faded. Becoming aware of the bluescreen and the avatar of which I exist in, I'm breaking through the cages.
There's so many checkered floors and doors that lead to more doors. Huge ones you can walk on through and small ones only built for the willing to crawl.
What's a life lived without seeking for truth and knowledge?
What's life like beyond Truman's wall.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
And still you're more concerned with who's in front of the curtain than who's behind it.
The puppets are being controlled by the puppeteers.
The strings are there, even though they're thin and clear; if you're searching for truth you'll find it.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
When you're ready to receive it you won't ever have to believe.
Once you're hit with the vibrations, you'll come to know it instantly.
Wavelengths hitting more and more as you head for the top floor; out of your windows it gets clearer, lots more to see, lots more to explore. Mind be the key desiring to seek what's behind these locked doors.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC